The Dragon Round (5 page)

Livion sees the dragon breathe again. Flame arcs toward the captain as he runs forward. It bursts on the starboard bow an instant after he passes by, incinerating a sailor trying to throw a line to his fellows in the water. A pool of flame forms around the burning gunwale. Drops splatter Jeryon's black coat and Livion watches him doff the smoldering garment before leaping onto the foredeck and reloading the remaining cannon.

The poth clambers onto deck, drenched,
her long black hair trailing from her ravaged bun, her gray streaks tinted with blood. She needs more bandages, but the flames creeping along the starboard rail and walk are a more pressing concern. As she reaches for a bucket of sand beside the rail to put them out, a hand grasps her wrist through the rail. She starts and pulls back. The hand won't let her go. Another appears on the rail. She's readying the bucket to hold off the boarder when the rest of Solet appears, standing atop the ladder on the hull.

She says, “I thought sailors couldn't swim.”

“I'm Ynessi,” he says, climbing over the rail. “We're like tadpoles. Born in the water.” He spots the bucket and says, “That won't work. Not for this fire.”

She reconsiders the flames and says, “I know what we can use.”

The
Comber
has no whale line
on this voyage, so Jeryon takes up a coil of sail line and a block meant for the emergency rig. He ties the block onto the line like a fishing float then attaches the line to the harpoon through a hole near its head. He ties the other end of the line to the harpoon's tripod.

He aims the cannon at the dragon and considers what a prize it would make. There are enough men aboard who have rendered whales that they could dummy their way through a dragon. All that bone, teeth, and claw which can be flaked into peerless blades. All that skin, so tough it can be used for armor, but light enough to wear every day. And the phlogiston, the oil secreted from glands behind its jaw that fuels its fire. With Hanosh edging toward war with Ayden it would make a devastating weapon—or it could be sold for a fortune as lamp oil. The dragon rears its head and bares its neck. Then Beale manages to cry out. Jeryon changes his mind, swivels the cannon, and fires the harpoon and its line toward the men.

The iron splashes into a wave beyond them. The block and line are just buoyant enough to keep the latter afloat despite the harpoon
sinking. But the men don't move toward it. They might not even see it. Their arms are out. They stare empty eyed at the sun, heads back, mouths open. Only Beale moves, treading water incidentally while trying to climb out of the sea. Jeryon, whose fisherman father taught him to swim before he could tie a bowline, kicks off his sandals, dives off the prow, and swims down the line.

The dragon's wings are spread across the water, keeping it afloat, but they won't hold it up for long. It thrashes and finds that it can drag itself toward the ship. A meal's a meal, especially a last one. Jeryon, seeing this, swims faster.

In the poth's cabin, she and
Solet wrestle the drenched sailcloth off the tumbled crates and barrels. It's no easy thing to drag it forward, and two firemen help. They unfold it so two can take the starboard walk and two can take the middle. When the shadow of the sailcloth passes over the rowers, they snap their heads up, worried.

The heat is tremendous, and the stench of burning oil grates at the corners of their eyes. They flap the cloth atop the flames, driving out more smoke. The sailcloth sizzles. Two more firemen bring water casks. Solet tells them to pour it over the cloth, not the flames; it'll be easier to smother them. The flames on the walk are soon out. They hang the cloth over the gunwales, and the waves catch the end and help beat out the flames. Solet listens to the ship. He feels it through his feet. The hull still seems sound.

The poth says, “Where's the captain?” One of the sailors points out toward the harpoon line, then to the dragon.

Solet says, “Has he forgotten his precious book?”

The poth says, “You have to help him. You can swim.”

“I lied,” Solet says. “Can't swim a stroke. I worked my way along the side to the ladder.”

The poth looks at him in disbelief.

“What can I say?” he says. “I wanted to impress you.”

She should push him overboard, but that would only compound their problems. She grew up on a lake. She can swim well. But she knows she can't go in after the captain. If she were lost in the water, too many aboard would die without her healing.

“He's going to tie them to the line,” the poth says. “We'll haul them in.”

Solet follows her and the firemen to the foredeck.
The dragon won't last much longer
, he thinks.
Nor will the captain
. He needs to keep the former from sinking.

Jeryon considers which sailor to save
first. The waves decide for him. They drift Beale and Topp farther away while pushing together the other two. As their hands touch, instead of holding on to each other, each tries to get onto the other's shoulders. One goes under, then the next. Their backs and flailing arms appear. It's unclear whose is whose. They disappear again. A moment later Jeryon swims through the spot. He ducks his face into the water. He only sees the murk and matter of the sea. He swims on.

Jeryon reaches Topp first. He tries to talk to him, but waves flood his mouth. Topp doesn't respond anyway. Warily, Jeryon swims behind the sailor, a fist at the ready, then he grabs Topp around his chest. He puts up no resistance, and with a few scissor kicks Jeryon drags him to the line. He slips it under Topp's arm. This Topp understands, and he comes to, as if from sleep.

“Go,” Jeryon says. “Climb to safety.”

“No. Beale. I have to save him.”

“Then haul us in,” Jeryon says.

Topp says “Aye,” and he pulls for the ship. A cheer goes up on board.

Jeryon swims to where the block is nearly submerged by the weight of the harpoon. Beale is ten yards away. His flailing is getting more frantic.
He'll pull me under if I get close
, Jeryon thinks.

Livion watches the dragon beat toward the
Comber
. It either has no fire left, or it's so intent on swimming that it can't muster a breath. With only starboard oars, any attempt to go forward will carry the
Comber
dangerously close to the dragon. But, if he backrows any farther, Jeryon's lifeline will get pulled away. Company policy dictates: Never risk the ship for a sailor. But he can't let the captain die. And he doesn't have to use all his oars. He pipes for just the forward three to pull, steers to larboard, and the
Comber,
balanced, edges toward the men in the water.

The harpoon line folds before the prow. Everlyn and the sailors, relieved that the ship is moving, take up the slack. With the dragon closing in, Solet hears Livion pipe “to arms.” But, instead of gathering the scattered crossbows and men to wield them he runs to the stern deck. Livion pipes again. Solet won't be deterred.

Jeryon holds his hands out as best he can, trying to calm Beale. “I'm going to push you to the rope,” he says, circling the harpooner. “Don't do anything. Look at the rope.” Beale's eyes follow him, though. He spots the dragon beyond Jeryon, and all the fire goes out of him. He pulls in his arms, exhales, and sinks.

Saving him for a flogging,
Jeryon thinks. He dives.

While Topp is being lifted onto
the galley Livion searches the water for the captain. He hasn't emerged.

Solet climbs to the stern deck. Livion says, “I have the ship, and I gave you an order!”

“Then I am acting first officer,” Solet says, “and it's my duty to remind you—”

“I know the book,” Livion says.

“And I know the captain would have ordered you to stay away from the dragon,” Solet says.

Livion stares at him coldly. “You want him dead. Then you'll want the dragon as a prize.”

Solet has the audacity to appear surprised. He says, “The captain and Beale may already be gone. We aren't.”

Jeryon still hasn't emerged. The poth, Topp, and the firemen hold the line, waiting. A few other sailors have taken up crossbows to shoot the dragon. Two bolts stick in its face. The dragon isn't discouraged.

“Crossbows aren't going to kill that thing,” Solet says. “We have to back water. We can watch it die from a distance. It can't have long.”

Livion has to agree, however insolent and manipulative Solet is. Even if the captain emerges, by the time they could reel him in, the dragon would be climbing over the rail. He pipes again. The remaining rowers lift as one and pull the ship away from the dragon. The harpoon line is dragged through the water. The poth throws the slack out, leaps up, and looks pleadingly at Livion. She points at the line. There's nothing there.

Livion tells Solet, “I want a report on the damage below in five minutes and one on the wounded in ten.”

6

As the
Comber
accelerates, the block at the end of the harpoon line rises to the surface. Water streams over it, more than there should be, creating a bright wake. The poth yells, “There!” A head breaks through the overflow, and another. Jeryon holds the block, and Beale holds him. The poth says, “Help me,” to two sailors nearby. Topp is already heaving at the line. The others join in. The drag is considerable, though, with the ship moving. They make little progress. And the
Comber
is turning, drawing the line directly across the path of the dragon.

Livion pipes double-time to get them clear. He hopes the captain and Beale can hang on. They look like bait.

Solet sees what he must do. As two more sailors take hold of the
line, he sprints to the cannon. The galley is turning into the dragon's field of fire. He grabs a powder packet from its metal storage chest, stuffs it in, tamps it down, and pulls an iron out from under the feet of the poth and Topp. As they move aside, he slams the harpoon home, grabs the firing rod, and sights, conveniently, straight down the harpoon line.

The dragon is only ten yards behind Beale, its head just above the water, its body largely submerged, which doesn't give Solet much of an angle. For a moment he finds the harpoon aimed straight at Jeryon.
No one could blame me
, he thinks.
It'd be like a hunting accident
. Jeryon looks Solet in the eye, clearly thinking the same thing. Solet feels for the touch hole with the rod. Then Beale, exhausted, lets go of the line.

Jeryon rolls over and reaches out to grasp him, but the lightened line is easier to pull in, and Jeryon is jerked forward by the poth and the sailors. He almost loses his own grip and rolls back to dig his fingers into the block. The dragon's head rears and its jaw drops, not for a breath, but for a big downward bite. Beale scrambles in the water. The dragon's wings throw spray over him. It's one stroke away from the men.

Solet has a clear shot. Topp says, “What are you waiting for?” The dragon's head comes down. Solet fires.

The harpoon narrowly clears Beale's head and sinks deep into the dragon's neck. Its head snaps aside. Its neck thrashes in agony, blood spewing from its mouth. The dragon makes one last heave, glides forward, and covers Beale with its wing, trapping him under water.

Livion pipes. The oars drag the
Comber
to a stop. The harpoon line is pulled in and Jeryon is lifted onto the foredeck. He spits water and rolls onto his shoulder to consider the dragon. “Dead?” Jeryon says.

Solet says, “I think so.”

“Beale?”

“I don't know.”

The dragon's head rolls on its side, its eye open to the sun. Waves fan over the wings. A hand shoots through one of the rents in the membrane made by a bolt. Topp yells, “Beale!” The hand slips under
the waves. Topp yells again, “Beale!” Now fingers appear on either side of the rent. They push it apart.

Solet says, “I cannot be seeing this.”

Beale's head crowns then pops through. He turns and says to Topp, “What?”

Jeryon stands by the mast, sandals
on again, and confers with Tuse on the rowers' deck. The oarmaster is bruised and burned, and he's lost a large clump of dirty, matted hair.

“All but one of our larboard rowers are dead or too injured to row,” Tuse says. “And if it weren't for the poth—” he flicks his eyes forward to where she's treating someone and he lowers his voice, “we'd be much worse off. Once the rigging and casualties are removed half the benches should be usable, which matches the number of oars we have left. I'll put twelve on a side and we can get underway.”

Jeryon notices Tuse's expression and asks, “Anything else?”

Tuse glances forward again. “More powder won't get another stroke out of these men,” he says. “We might manage regular time, nothing more.”

Jeryon says, “We'll spell them with sailors.”

“The guild would object,” Tuse says, “and the brothers.”

“Then they can keep their seats,” Jeryon says. “And if they can't pull, I'll object to the guild. But we'll be underway in half an hour.”

“Half an hour!” Tuse says.

“We have a schedule,” Jeryon says.

Solet, who is overseeing the removal of the yard, overhears. As do several sailors watching the school of hammerheads return to attack the dragon. Its hide is tough, and they haven't been able to do much damage, but each bite feels like a full purse gone and they still hope Jeryon will let them take it. That its wings have kept it afloat and the waves have kept it near the galley encourages them.

Jeryon considers addressing the crew on the matter and decides
against it. Instead he bets himself that Solet will run to Livion as soon as the yard clears the deck. He'll give Solet this: the second mate knows how to complain up the chain of command. And he's smart enough not to harpoon someone in front of the crew. Fortunately, Livion is weak, but not feebleminded. He thinks like Jeryon. Livion will push Solet off, maybe relieve him. A good test of his quality.